


Communicate

by BrosleCub12



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Best Friends, Character Death (off-screen), Gen, Grief, Post-Season/Series 03, Writer's Block, lovely Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 13:06:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8625550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosleCub12/pseuds/BrosleCub12
Summary: Just write something.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rachelindeed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachelindeed/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine. 
> 
> This was written as part of a massive mental block that had left me floundering, anxious and producing subpar fic; as a result, this particular story means a lot to me because it was the first time in a long time where I've felt happy with what I've written.
> 
> I'm dedicating this to rachelindeed for years of support, advice, help and friendship. My writing anxieties have made me selfish, but she has always shown me kindness. Thankyou to you, R.

* * *

Everything is gone.

He sits in front of the computer, his eyes buried in the heel of his hands, his left one, almost taunting, shaking against his face. His leg aches – his whole body is betraying him _(a Sherlockian phrase,_ he realises with a bitter twist of the mouth).

The memory of Sherlock’s body hitting the pavement is still there – the crunch, the impact, unseen, the stumble of his own feet to reach his friend's side.

And now, he doesn’t know what to say. He peeks through his fingers; the screen is still flashing that cursor at him, on-off, on-off. _Come on Watson;_ the taunt of his superiors in the army, their voices gruff with the need to push.

When did he lose all his words?

 _When Sherlock died._ Seven days after it happened, he still can't bear the word, can't stand the merciless line of it even in his head. Dead. Finished. Final. A full-stop on a short life that was worth so much more; that _deserved_ more than jumping off a roof in the wind because he thought it was the only way out.

_You should have spoken to me, you stupid bastard._

The words are there, right there on the screen before he can stop them, typed out violently, of his own volition without really realising. He half-thinks about posting it, of letting the world see that yes, he is still loyal to Sherlock and do they want to make something of it? The idea shoves at his consciousness for a moment and he takes to the keyboard once more.

 _You don't live with someone for eighteen months and misunderstand what a tremendous dick they can be,_ he types the words and the grief is overwhelming, takes him all over again. Eighteen months; eighteen months of bickering, car-chases, chases on foot, murders, rotten experiments, gunshots and deductions.

You can't fake something like that. The fact that Sherlock called him before he jumped speaks for itself.

He rests his face in his hands a minute more. Part of him wants to do this; wants to let everyone who believed they were right – Donovan, Anderson, Kitty Reilly – see just exactly what they've done. They pushed Sherlock to the edge and whatever the hell happened, John is willing to bet that the past year and a half was not a lie.

_We were happy, weren't we?_

...But. He can't. The two lines he's written are all he can say, all he can write down. When he tries to say more, it feels like explanation; rationalising; excusing. A wall of bricks tumbling down into their own hole; a whole load of waffle that doesn't need to be there. He doesn't need to justify Sherlock Holmes to the world – doesn't need to give a long-winded explanation into why he still doesn't think it was all a lie. He doesn't owe anyone that and his hands – his hands are shaking badly, _too_ badly. This is a stress he doesn't like.

Finally, he does the only thing he can do; he can’t let this go unfinished, can’t let the blog just fade without something, anything, to commemorate his friend and what they had.

 _Just write something._ The thought is a whisper like water, may have come from Ella or Mike or Bill or _someone,_ somewhere, the advice to just do it, to just give something, because it's better than nothing. And Sherlock Holmes is – was – far better than nothing.

He deletes the tired abuse he's written and begins again: lowers his hand to the keyboard and lets the words tap themselves out, a last validation even if he’s the only one – or at least one of a few – who believes it.

_He was my best friend and I’ll always believe in him._

*

Mary’s death is quick and sharp, a gunshot and a hospital and then it’s over, and he’s a widower. He doesn’t touch the blog for several weeks, not even when Sherlock takes him out on cases. He knows why Sherlock does it – knows the man is offering distraction and something like normality for him and also, he realises, giving his body a chance to sleep, pushing him through the adrenaline rush and straight through to the point where he can just collapse and fade.

(The first couple of weeks after, after… he had tossed and turned for hours, seen things behind his eyelids he never wanted to see again; _anxiety dreams,_ Ella called them. Vivid and bloody, losing Mary, losing Sherlock, losing all and waking up to expect to find himself back in the bedsit, back at the start. He lay there and the noise, the reminder of Sherlock down below; the gentle reminder that he's not alone).

He enjoys the rush; enjoys the running; enjoys the air on his face, the flirtation with danger. His rage at losing what he's lost is released into the cold evenings; the way he tackles people against the wall who are trying to shoot at Sherlock; the warning shots of his new gun (still getting used to it, an exact replica of his old one, which Mycroft had to take away after… after that Christmas), the marching of murderers into custody.

… But then the next day will come, the next day of tea and toast, the restfulness. And the blog. He should. He _should._ That’s what used to happen. He's written notes in his little books, untidier than before, but still, doctor's shorthand and, well. Loss.

He's so _tired_ all the time. He's tired with the grief of the lost chance of fatherhood. He's tired of looking at the gaps where Mary used to stand and smile and laugh (even after she shot Sherlock).

(He's tired of wrestling with that same question – _should I have taken her back?_

_And is this my punishment because I did?)_

It stops him, that exhaustion, steers him away from the computer and the possibility of falling into his own words, of landing smack-bang in the middle of them and being unable to organise them and instead, sits himself in front of the telly, or a book, _I'll update the blog tomorrow._

*

Eventually, after two weeks of staying away, he makes himself sit at the computer – needs to reassure the world that he’s alive, that he’s coping, to stave off the concerned texts and the well-wishers who seem to be everywhere, can't avoid them forever – and opens up the blog. As soon as he clicks on the dialogue box, he loses everything.

Every word he tries to tap out slips away and he’s left with a sluggish mess on his screen, little more than _this happened_ and _that happened,_ nothing like the simple but eloquent rush of how he used to write, fearlessly and with confidence; sharing with the world what always felt like another adventure. He has his notes, he tries to assure himself, he has that. The case won't just fade away; there _is_ evidence. He just…

He’s tired. He’s really, really tired.

A cup of tea appears at his elbow and Sherlock kneels down next to him; it’s such an oddly intimate gesture and John blinks at him, but Sherlock's eyes are on the screen. John should feel embarrassed – it’s not that he doesn’t like going out on cases, not that he’s not grateful for the distraction – but there’s a barrier in his mind, one that’s popped up between himself and the page, a wall that’s happy to kill every way he could start a sentence. He can practically see his words fading away like smoke every time he tries to get them out; can see them hitting that wall and sliding down and away.

There’s a sudden flick and a blink as the screen is turned off - not by John - and then Sherlock is turning the chair, gesturing him to his feet.

‘Come with me,’ he murmurs and the order is gentle enough, kind enough, _curious_ enough, that John has to follow it.

*

They wander along the Thames, Sherlock with a cigarette, John with a Cadbury bar he brought and he snaps pieces off, offers them to Sherlock; wishes the bastard wouldn't smoke, but he has been quite good recently and John just can't muster up the energy for a lecture. They carry the tea in a couple of to-go mugs that Mrs Hudson had lying around. They don't talk much, beside the occasional observation here and there and like always, it's a comfort.

John finds himself tucking an arm through Sherlock’s – bit stupid, maybe, someone will probably talk, but he neglects that idea and lets his head rest against Sherlock’s shoulder, glad that, at the very least, one of the two lying idiots in his life is still here. They eventually stop, halfway down; Sherlock stubs out his cigarette, slowly savoured and John crumples up the wrapper, watches the water, thinks.

‘I didn’t write for over a year after you died,’ he tells Sherlock finally, as they stare out at the grey rush of the Thames. ‘I didn’t want to. Every time I sat down at the page…’

He untucks his arm, and uses both his hands to imitate a plane crash, complete with sound-effects whistling from his own tongue. Sherlock chuckles a bit and John finds a smile for him. How odd, that just after a matter of weeks, after Mary dying, he would find himself laughing with Sherlock.

 _She’d probably approve_ and the thought loosens something inside him, just a little bit. He takes a shaky sip of tea to hide it.

‘It’s still very early,’ Sherlock tells him gravely, crossing his arms, leaning backwards against the Thames ledge and John makes a sound of acquiescence. ‘When… when Redbeard died, I didn’t experiment for two months.’

John blinks at that, lowers his cup and turns Sherlock’s way. _Are you really comparing my wife to your dog_ , he wants to ask, it's on the tip of his tongue, ready as a bullet - but something about that sounds spiteful, even just in his head and on the heel of that thought comes another thought, words that sound suspiciously like Mary: _well,_ _ **you’ve** certainly acted like a bit of a prick. _

Anyway, it’s not every day that Sherlock opens up (opens his heart) like this.

'Really,’ he comments; Sherlock nods, glancing out at the river, finding the foam and the kick of the water very fascinating suddenly.

‘I gave all my pirate books to charity,’ he replies, not looking John’s way and John’s shoulders lift with a chuckle and he has to lean against the ledge, laughs at the water. Bless him for trying.

‘Not good?’ Sherlock offers, tentative and John just beams at him, slightly hysterical, his eyes just a little bit moist.

‘Oh, come here, you…’ He takes a step closer and wraps Sherlock up in his arms. Sherlock seems a little startled, but John is careful and just...keeps them there for a moment, the two of them, him and Sherlock together, beside the London river, a palm careful on the detective's back. And actually, it _helps,_ gives John something else to focus on, just for a moment, besides this mental block that keeps plaguing him and has done since Mary died.

‘I used to love English at school,’ he shrugs when he pulls away again, wipes his eyes for good measure. ‘I liked… getting everything out. I was never a writer and I knew that – I knew that the first time. But _.._.’ He holds up his hands and gives them a wriggle, the frustration of a man feeling lost at his laptop and Sherlock twists his mouth in something oddly sympathetic. (How much more human he’s become).

‘You’re worried that this time, it won’t come back,’ he deduces. John shrugs and leans back against the ledge with him.

‘Does it _always_ have to be about you?’ he asks eventually, trying not to sound bitter about it and not trying hard, angrier with himself than he is at Sherlock. ‘Was you who helped me find it again, I know, but. Still. Would be nice if I could do it off my own bat.'

He very deliberately doesn’t look at Sherlock this time, his eyes narrowed against the breeze and the weak glow of the sun.

‘I just…’ He raises his head and closes his eyes. ‘I want…’

 _Familiar things,_ he supplies for himself. _I want a safe port in the storm._

Sherlock hands him his tea and he drains it with a ‘Ta,’ lets it slip down his throat. It’s March, but it’s still chilly. His thoughts go back to another time, not too far from this place; six years before in a lonely January, a different drink from a different vendor with Mike Stamford, his hands trembling.

Not that, he thinks. Not that. He hadn’t told Mike that he had spent a long time the night before just staring at his gun. He hadn’t told anyone.

‘Give it time,’ Sherlock says, eventually and John glances at him, a little surprised; Sherlock still seems caught, more words snagging, uncertain on his tongue.

‘...I didn’t want another dog after Redbeard, although – Daddy suggested it,’ He reaches up to scratch his ears, sheepish. ‘I screamed at him and threw my dinner against the wall. They had to paint over the stain.' He's embarrassed, a man in his Belstaff sharing part of his childhood. They don't talk about that kind of thing often – not even after John finally got to visit the family home. Maybe they should? John isn't sure.

'Well… ' he offers, bracingly as well as merciful; Sherlock is still looking very uncomfortable and it bothers him. 'You got on quite well with Toby, didn't you?'

'Yes,' Sherlock agrees quickly, something in his voice betraying a sudden enthusiasm. John smiles at the memory of the gorgeous bloodhound who had assisted them on their last case, a beautiful, big-hearted canine who had not only sniffed out the vital clue and led them to the killer, but who had also endeared himself to the pair of them, accepting treats from John's pocket and – rather touchingly – staying close to Sherlock's side and licking his palm at random intervals, having taken a rather apparent liking to the detective. He had put a grin on Sherlock's face that had hitched Lestrade's eyebrows heavenward and had managed to help John to forget, just for a while at least.

Then he realises, in the next heartbeat – he's completely forgotten to mention Toby. So caught up has he been with trying to make the previous cases sound interesting – to make his words sound more than dull matter, prove to himself that he _c_ _an_ make this work, that he can write something just to prove he was still _something_ – a doctor and a soldier of a kind, even though he can no longer call himself a husband, much less a father – that Toby's involvement – simple, lovely Toby – had slipped his mind utterly.

Maybe he should start with that one instead, he considers the possibility. People like dogs, after all.

‘You’re a competent doctor, you know,’ Sherlock tells him then, ‘and you are _very_ good at shooting people. You can do other things besides write.’

John smiles a little, dryly. ‘So you’re admitting I _can_ write?’

Sherlock cocks his head. ‘I think your blog appeals to a wide number of, um...well, _people,'_ (John rolls his eyes), 'and has the potential to both entertain and offer up some-much needed education at the same time. It’s not _that_ bad,’ he adds, sounding a little too assuring, making too much of an effort to be nice about it to the point of being utterly patronising. Bastard - but. He hasn’t exactly discouraged it either; has often stood at John’s shoulder, hovering, reading, throwing out unhelpful comments and leaving a few himself, yep, but he’s _never…_

‘Maybe I should take to Twitter, instead,’ he suggests.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and promptly bellows out an ‘OH, GOD!’ to the river that leaves John torn between howling with laughter and wanting to die of embarrassment; he leans against the ledge, straight-backed and lets his shoulders shake. It’s often both, he thinks, which is why the man makes good subject matter.

‘It’s only 140 characters after all,’ he offers with a straight face, 'can't get any worse than that.'

Sherlock sulks loudly, exaggerated just for the hell of it and unheeding of the general public and John only takes pity (and draws the line) when Sherlock threatens to throw himself into the Thames to spare himself such a fate.

'I'll float along, John,' he tells him seriously as John puts a hand over his eyes, 'and start a tribe, away from technology and your tweeting.'

'You wouldn't last two minutes,' John grins, shaking his head at him.

'Oh, and what a lovely, peaceful two minutes _those_ would be,' Sherlock rejoins, but his thoughtful head-tilt and his crinkling eyes are both an obvious concession of _Fair enough,_ and then he winks at him. John grins back and they just… smile at each other for a moment, warmly so and John finds himself thinking how much good it's doing him, to see Sherlock relaxed and happy, just for a moment at least and _here,_ engaging in banter so deliberately just to keep him, John, ticking over.

He glances at his watch and makes a silent head-gesture back the way they came; Sherlock nods in agreement and they fall into a retraced tread, side-by-side.

‘Give it time,’ Sherlock tells him again as they wander back towards Baker Street and the fact that he’s repeating himself is more than enough to make John pause and take note.

(Ha – pun).

*

‘Would you like anymore of this?’ Sherlock asks that evening; he puts the remains of a spaghetti bolognaise in a bowl by John’s elbow – cooked from scratch by Mrs Hudson and John should feel guilty that his recent grief has prompted the landlady to make meals for them daily, but the food’s too good to resist. Plus, the bolognaise always has a little touch of red wine to it and so he takes down his headphones and decides, waste not, want not.

‘Ta,’ he murmurs and digs in, shoving pasta in his mouth and putting his headphones back up to catch the last ten minutes of an episode of _Doctor Who;_ it’s late and he should be in bed soon, but he wants to finish his Netflix time first.

‘I…’ Sherlock pauses by the chair and John sighs and pulls the headphones back down, pointedly sucking up a bit of spaghetti. ‘I’ve had an email from a delegate who’s dropping by tomorrow evening. Looks promising.’ He pauses deliberately and John smiles, nods.

‘Okay, then.’

‘Alright,’ Sherlock throws a brief smile his way. ‘Goodnight, then, John.’

‘Night.’ John waves a hand over his shoulder – knows that Sherlock probably won’t sleep just yet, but will lie quietly in his room and review the facts of the case he’s been offered. He’s just glad the man is allowing himself some form of rest, even if it’s just lying on his bed; the last few months have been mentally taxing for him, too.

He waits until he hears Sherlock’s bedroom door slam and then he pauses the Eleventh Doctor in the middle of doing something squiffy and pulls up his blog page. He tamps down the urge to try and sort through the jumbled mess of the last case report he has in his drafts; knows he'll just frustrate himself and go on a downwards spiral and he knows that’s not what he needs, or even wants. His life is enough of a mess right now, thanks.

Instead, he opens up the dialogue box; remembers that time, over three years ago now, the fear of falling into explanation; of giving too much away with too many of the wrong words. _Just write **something,**_ he had urged himself and with that he starts to compose a new post.

 _To the best man in the world,_ he writes in the header and then drops down to the box. Lets his fingers twiddle on the keyboard for a moment and tamps down the new wave of insecurity that’s threatening his shoulders every time he stares at a blank document, before he decides:

_Thankyou._

The letters step out carefully, one by one and he adds a _J_ underneath for the sake of it – cross the t's and dot the i's, after all. Then he sets it to _Private_ – strictly speaking, he _should_ be the only one to see it, but he knows that won’t stop Sherlock, who's probably bound to notice it, to read it in the next twenty-four hours, at least – and he presses Post, feeling an odd sense of satisfaction that he’s said what he wants to say, even if it’s just that.

 _First hurdle_ , he commends himself and shuts down his computer, something in his mind just a little less empty. _The first brick in the wall._ _  
_

Still, he thinks, with a sudden bout of wickedness as he lumbers up the stairs to bed; closes the door and lets himself collapse on the soft duvet - something about today, even without a case, having exhausted him - maybe it _is_ worth starting up a twitter account, just for Sherlock’s reaction alone.

Experimentation is _everything,_ after all.

*


End file.
